At his departure Philipp tried to induce the Eletto to change his course betimes, for he was following a dangerous path; but Ulrich laughed in his face, exclaiming:  “You know I have found the right word, and shall use it to the end.  You were born to power in a small way; I have won mine myself, and shall not rest until I am permitted to exercise it on a great scale, nay, the grandest.  If aught on earth affords a taste of heavenly joy, it is power!”

In the camp the Eletto found the troops from Aalst prepared for departure, and as he rode along the road saw in imagination, sometimes his parents, his parents in a new and happy union, sometimes Ruth in the full splendor of her majestic beauty.  He remembered how proudly he had watched his father and mother, when they went to church together on Sunday, how he had carried Ruth in his arms on their flight; and now he was to see and experience all this again.

He gave his men only a short rest, for he longed to reach his mother.  It was a glorious return home, to bring such tidings!  How beautiful and charming he found life; how greatly he praised his destiny!

The sun was setting behind pleasant Aalst as he approached, and the sky looked as if it was strewn with roses.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” he murmured, pointing out to his lieutenant the brilliant hues in the western horizon.

A messenger hastened on in advance, the thunder of artillery and fanfare of music greeted the victors, as they marched through the gate.  Ulrich sprang from his horse in front of the guildhall and was received by the captain, who had commanded during his absence.

The Eletto hastily described the course of the brilliant, victorious march, and then asked what had happened.

The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, saying, in a low tone:  “Nothing of great importance; but day before yesterday a wicked deed was committed, which will vex you.  The woman you love, the camp sibyl. . . .”

“Who?  What?  What do you mean?”

“She went to Zorrillo, and he—­you must not be startled—­he stabbed her.”

Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone “Stabbed!” Then seizing the other by the shoulder, he shrieked:  “Stabbed!  That means murdered-killed!”

“He thrust his dagger into her heart, she must have died as quickly as if struck by lightning.  Then Zorrillo went away, God knows where.  Who could suspect, that the quiet man. . . .”

“You let him escape, helped the murderer get off, you dogs!” raved the wretched man.  “We will speak of this again.  Where is she, where is her body?”

The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a soothing tone:  “Calm yourself, Navarrete!  We too grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp will miss her.  As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go through the gate at any hour.  The body is still lying in his quarters.”

“Indeed!” faltered the Eletto.  Then calming himself, he said, mournfully:  “I wish to see her.”